


And You'll See

by VenomQuill



Series: Gravity Trails [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Gravity Trails, Stanford's a hermit like seriously he doesn't talk to people, legend of the white stag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 11:30:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12793638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenomQuill/pseuds/VenomQuill
Summary: It's been weeks since Fiddleford fell into the portal and exposed Bill and then quit the project. It's been weeks since Stanford's had a decent night's rest.





	And You'll See

**Author's Note:**

> See it on dA: http://fav.me/dbuibpw

Stanford slumped down at the dining room table and set his head in his hands. The table had been overrun by dirty dishes, crumbled papers, food trash, and broken pens. Some shattered glass dressed the table and floor. A few liquids–most coffee and juice–had not been cleaned up just yet.

The man growled and glowered at the table. “What am I supposed to do? Dammit!” he slammed his fist into the table, causing a few objects to rattle and his fourth cup of coffee to teeter dangerously. “I shouldn’t have trusted you. Fiddleford was right and now he won’t even answer my calls! It’s all your fault!” He glared at the wall. “It’s all your fault! You tricked me, but I will _not_ fall for your tricks again. I’m going to stop you, I swear it!”

The wall didn’t reply.

He stood up. “I’ll find a way to stop you. Then, I’ll make sure you never trick anyone again! You’re not going to take this dimension, Cipher! I swear it!”

Again, the wall and the inanimate objects that hung on it didn’t reply.

Stanford stomped his foot, pushed his chair back, and started pacing. “I just need to think of something. I’ll do it. I’m smart. I’ll defeat you. I’ll stop you.” He glared at the phone. “With or without his help.”

As his hate-fueled pacing wore on, he tired himself out. He plopped back down at the dining room table and crossed his arms on the table. There had to be something he could do. There had to be something he could do. But what _could_ he do?

He looked up and then started. Standing at the window, his snowy form set aglow in the moonlight, was the largest deer he’d ever seen. Antlers branched like bowed trees above him. His pure white pelt shimmered like the stars above. It stared at him with round golden eyes.

“What do you want?” Stanford growled at him, his fear and suspicion sparking anger that his tired body couldn’t handle.

…

“What do you want?” Stanford repeated, louder this time.

…

“Shoo! Get out of here!” Stanford waved his hand. The stag looked at his hand and then at him. “Get! I’m not falling for it!” The stag turned and clopped away. “You better leave,” Stanford grumbled. He stood up and shut the window. The stag wasn’t in his sight as he did so.

 

Stanford’s night was rough, as was the next day. His restlessness was getting worse. His mind was foggy. His steps shuffled and he dragged himself from place to place. This wasn’t the Stanford Pines that had occupied this house a few weeks ago. He was going crazy under his inability to sleep or think straight and under the fact that he hadn’t spoken to a living soul in weeks.

But, as he sat down in his living room, reading over his notes, he noticed a pale white figure outside. He jumped and looked up. Standing at the door was the stag. This time, he had a book in his mouth. Stanford glared at the creature. “What do you want?”

The stag stared at him, the book held firmly in his mouth. The window was closed, so it wasn’t like the stag could put the book inside.

Stanford looked at the book and then at the stag. “I’m not falling for it. I don’t trust you. Now go away, won’t you?”

…

“Ugh! Go! Shoo!” Stanford stood up and waved his hand. The stag didn’t even bat an eye at Stanford’s futile efforts. Eventually, Stanford walked over to the window and snapped the curtains shut.

That night, the stag was not there.

Stanford couldn’t celebrate for long as, when he left his lab the next morning, the stag was right there. Stanford yelped and backed off. The creature was laying in the front room, head bowed, book in his mouth, and antlers taking up Stanford’s vision. Stanford gulped and looked down at him. The deer was in his house. _It was in his house._

Eventually, he choked out, “What are you doing here?”

…

“Wh-who let you in here?” Stanford looked at the door. It was closed. “What are you doing in here?” Stanford backed up and patted the wall. Where was his crossbow?!

The stag lifted his head a bit. His antlers brushed against the beams of the house. He craned his neck as if offering the book to Stanford.

Stanford shook his head. “Y-you’re leaving this house. Right now!”

…

“Ugh!” Stanford walked around him, careful to go around his back to avoid the deer’s spookily large legs. When he got to the door, he opened it and stood outside. “Out!”

The deer bowed his head. Stanford could’ve sworn he heard him sigh. But, he eventually got to his knees and scooted out of the house. He looked at Stanford for a while before walking away, head and tail high. Stanford had half a mind to tell him not to come back, but decided against it. Instead, he hurried back inside.

A few hours later, Stanford saw him again. This time, the deer was staring at him through his living room window. The book was still in his mouth. Stanford rolled his eyes and went on with what he was doing, which was sifting through books and notes. The deer left after half an hour straight of being ignored. But he wasn’t gone for long before he appeared in his kitchen window, watching him make dinner out of a can of beans.

Stanford no longer jumped when he saw the beast. After five straight days of the deer haunting his house, he brushed it off as a Category One ghost that had the illusion of physicality. That would make the most sense.

Just as Stanford was getting used to shutting curtains that seemed to open themselves each night, he made a mistake. He opened the window in the living room to let in some morning air. He had his back turned to the window for three seconds before he felt a warm, heavy breath on his back. He jumped and spun around. The stag had stuck his head through the window. He huffed again. “Ghosts don’t breathe…” Stanford mumbled.

Calm as ever, the stag stared at him, waiting.

Stanford rolled his eyes and sighed. “Okay, fine. Hand it over.” He held out his hand. The stag opened his mouth. The book fell into Stanford’s hand, which turned into both of his hands as it got unbalanced. Stanford held it up. His brows furrowed. “‘Photo Album’? What are you going on about?” He looked up. The stag was gone. He looked down at the simple book. “Who does this belong to?” When he looked on the back, there was no name. When he opened it, he nearly dropped it. The first thing he saw was a family photo of many people–from a few old men and women down to the infant being held by a woman next to a very familiar man. An inscription was scrawled beneath it. _“To our son, who will one day change the world: Fiddleford Hadron McGucket.”_

Stanford sat down on the cluttered couch and stared at the book. This was Fiddleford’s. Wasn’t it supposed to be at his house? Wait… did Fiddleford give it to the ghost-deer? A spark of hope flickered within him before dying. No. No, Fiddleford would never even approach a regular deer if it looked funny, much less a white deer with intelligence that could somehow get into Stanford’s cabin.

Regardless, Stanford should probably give it back. First… no. Stanford shut the book. No, it would be rude to look through someone’s things like that. Still…

Stanford, feeling quite mad at himself but unable to push away his curiosity, opened the book again and started looking through it. Immediately, he regretted it. Pictures of Fiddleford with his family dressed the pages. A kid version of his best friend dominated the first part of the book. Stanford shut his eyes and took a deep breath. The picture of two blonde-haired, blue-eyed boys that chased each other with paint brushes around an almost-painted wagon stared up at him. _“Thistlebert and Fiddleford ‘helping’ paint Pa’s old wagon.”_ Stanford remembered such an image. Two sunburnt boys ran around the beach next to a broken sailboat, both boys holding paintbrushes dipped in black paint.

Stanford shook his head and went on to the next page. This wasn’t his life, he knew. He wasn’t in a big family that always got together in family reunions. He didn’t have many sisters and brothers and cousins to cause trouble with. He had a brother… one whom he hadn’t talked to in a very long time.

He came across a section that nearly made Stanford close it for good. The one previous held an older teenage boy with a letter, his smile painfully wide and eyes bright, flanked by his family and friends and even a few hogs. This one was a picture of two older teen boys standing together. One was dressed up in a nice clean suit he remembered Ma fussing over for a good hour or so. The other was dressed in less formal wear, though not informal enough to be considered regular street clothes. _“Fiddleford’s first college friend!”_

As he slowly went through the book, he forgot what was happening around him. He forgot he was in his messy cabin. He could feel the hardwood floor beneath his feet and the rug he sat upon. He could hear the laughter in the air riding upon the scent of a fully eaten dinner. He came across a photo of him and Fiddleford at college party. Both were soaked in spiked punch and both were laughing. _“Partying a little too hard!”_

Stanford, caught up in the moment he relived, laughed aloud. “Damn, Fiddleford’s idea of a ‘nice party to meet friends’ was way too much like yours.” Stanford hesitated and his smile left him. Next to him was just a pile of old boxes. He looked around. The room was just one big pile of old boxes, worn books, and junk.

Stanford deflated. Then, he managed to catch the white deer in the corner of his eye. The outside was a bit darker, just past the afternoon. The deer watched him from the open window. Stanford glanced down at the book again. “You know, my idea of a party was sitting inside of my room studying. Well, wasn’t really my idea of a _party_ , just what I’d rather be doing.” The stag flicked an ear. Stanford, encouraged, went on, “But you see, Fiddleford thought I was staying in my room too much. So, he dragged me out to this party. None of the other kids there knew me! But a few did know Fiddleford. Well, part way through the party, we realized someone spiked the punch. Things went a bit off the rails there after that. I didn’t really get into a fight, but I did splash Fiddleford with that punch he gave me. He threw it right back at me. Aw, but I couldn’t be mad at him.” He looked down at the picture. “He was my friend, the best one I’d known in a long time.” His smile fell. “I drove him away, too.”

The white deer, now that Stanford had stopped talking, snorted. The pages ruffled a bit. So, Stanford flipped the page. This one was of Fiddleford holding up a “2nd Place” ribbon. _“2 nd place out of two hundred students!”_

“I remember this one. Fiddleford and I both had enrolled in this mandatory social studies class, you see. For our final project, we had to interview people of a certain group and then explain. Fiddleford went over local farmers and how they were affected by urbanization and factories. Mine was over the science community and how underrepresentation was affecting its place here. I got first place and he got second. He wasn’t anything but happy for me, despite the fact that this had been a competition.” He chuckled to himself. “It’s not like I wasn’t competitive, I just didn’t like competing against him.”

Hours went past of Stanford telling the white stage all about his and Fiddleford’s college days. There came a point where Stanford stopped appearing. But Stanford did know some things about these since he and Fiddleford talked quite a bit in their down time. “Heh. He called me when he got his son. He was happier and more excited right then than any other time since I’d known him. He loved his wife and he loved Tate.”

Stanford sighed. “When I asked for his help a year ago, he was happy to help.” He looked up at the stag. “And now he’s gone! He won’t answer my calls! I’ve messed up so badly. I’m afraid he… hey, wait! You got this book, right?” Stanford held up the book. “Is he alright?”

The stag nodded.

Stanford sighed. “Oh, good. I’ve messed up so many things. I don’t want to hurt him anymore. When you mean he’s alright… you mean he’s alive, right? Did he go back home?” Selfishly, Stanford was hoping the answer to the second question was a “no”.

The stag nodded.

Stanford smiled and looked down at the book. “Good. …so, you know things, right? Since you know Fiddleford, do you know other people?” The stag stared at him. “Okay, hoping that’s a yes? Well, you found him, and you found me. Do you know people outside of Gravity Falls?”

The stag, at first, just stared at him. Then, he turned away from the window.

Stanford jumped up. “Wait! I didn’t mean to run you off!” He set the book down and raced to the window. The stag was gone.

Stanford ran outside. He wasn’t anywhere near the house. He didn’t even leave any hoofprints to show where he’d gone. Stanford groaned and put a hand on his head. “Uuuugh that was stupid.” He looked into the forest. His eyes grew round. “Wait. That was a ghost, wasn’t it? And it’s trying to lead me away from my cabin.” Stanford looked about and slowly backed toward his house. “He’s just trying to get me outside and alone.” He shut himself inside of his house. “Good thing I didn’t run too far away. Who knows what would have happened if I tried to follow that thing?”

Stanford went back to looking at the book the stag had given him. He mostly re-read the college portion, trying to remember what it was like before Bill and before all this madness. What it was like in simpler times before Stanford found himself alone in the woods, eventually haunted by a demon. Of course, there were times before college, but he didn’t want to remember that right now.

 

He didn’t know when it happened, but he had fallen asleep. He woke up the next morning, the book still clutched in his hands. He winced as he position he’d fallen asleep in now made his muscles sore. He set the book down on a box next to himself and stretched. Ah. Yes. He should really rethink how he… sleeps…

Stanford gasped and looked around. Wait! Wait, he’d fallen asleep! But… he’d fallen asleep holding his book… and nothing was wrong. Nothing had been disturbed. Had Bill not visited him in his sleep?

Stanford got up and walked into the kitchen. There, standing by the window, was the white deer. “Did you do this?”

…

“What is this?” Stanford held up the book. “What are you? I just dreamt–well, I didn’t! That’s the point! Are you some sort of spirit or demon yourself? What’s going on?”

The stag blinked. Then, he turned to walk off.

“Wait!” Stanford raced outside. The stag stood in his yard. He was turned toward the forest, but his gaze stayed on Stanford’s. “What’s happening here? Who are you?”

The stag flicked his ear. Then, he turned and walked off. Stanford, the photo album still clutched in his arms, followed.

As they walked, Stanford watched the stag to make sure he wasn’t falling behind. He was acutely aware his cabin was behind the trees, now. Any predatory animal could sneak up on him.

Eventually, the stag walked into a cave. Stanford took out a flashlight. He gasped and stopped. Drawings and inscriptions scrawled over the wall. People, animals, and triangles with hats splattered over the stone walls. “Y-you do work for Bill!” Stanford accused.

The stag glanced back at him, raised one hoof, and then struck at the stone, straight into the demon’s big eye. He turned his head back and stared at Stanford.

Stanford looked over the painting and then at the white deer. “So, you don’t work for him?”

The stag stared at him.

“Okay, but, you know a lot of things. After you visited me, I didn’t have a nightmare about Bill and Bill didn’t destroy anything. Did you do that?”

…

Stanford looked down at his book. “Is there a way to stop him from entering this world?”

The stag lowered his head and snorted, stirring up dust from the floor. Then, he raised his head and walked out. He came so close to Stanford, that the man wouldn’t have to move his hand half a foot in order to touch him. Stanford didn’t even try.

The stag le him back home. From there, he bounded around the forest and disappeared. Stanford walked back into his cabin. “I… have a lot to think about.”

 

The next few days, Stanford attempted to study the creature that aided him. The white stag was no help. Any data he collected was quickly contradicted. In fact, as the days passed, Stanford had the oddest feeling the stag was _teasing_ him.

Stanford sighed in frustration. “Okay, so, two days ago you confirmed that you were a ghost. Yesterday you said you weren’t a ghost. Now today you tell me you’re a spirit from another dimension?”

The stag stared at him. He rested his chin on Stanford’s living room window.

Stanford groaned. “Okay, so, I don’t know that. But you’re a very intelligent creature that can understand literature, correct?”

The stag huffed.

“Okay. You can also ward off dreams, right?”

The stag huffed.

“Yesterday you said you couldn’t!”

The stag shut his eyes and fell asleep.

“You are the most frustrating entity I’ve ever had to deal with,” Stanford muttered, crossing something out in his journal. “I’m trying to save the world from Bill and you’re not helping!”

The stag made a show of yawning.

“That’s what I thought,” Stanford sighed and started going through his notes on Bill. Maybe he could find some connection between the stag and Bill. That is, unless _both_ entities were lying to him about themselves. God, he hated being helpless! He looked up at the sleeping deer. “Can’t you give me a clue? Just one hint? Just something to defeat Bill? Please?”

The deer woke up and stood up straight. For a while, he just stared at Stanford.

Stanford looked at him. “Uh… please?”

The stag turned and walked off, head held high.

Stanford jumped up and raced outside, his journal under one arm and a bag with some books and papers over his other shoulder.

Outside, the stag waited for him. When Stanford got outside, the stag walked down the road into town.

“Why are we going into town?” Stanford prompted. He perked up. “Do the natives of Gravity Falls know anything about Bill? Ugh! I should’ve thought of that earlier. Of course they might know some things about Bill.”

The stag didn’t even twitch an ear to acknowledge that he heard Stanford speak.

Eventually, they made it down into a small residential area. Stanford sucked in his breath as he saw Fiddleford’s car sitting in the driveway. “Are you telling me that Fiddleford knows how to defeat Bill?”

Again, the stag ignored him. Instead, he knocked on the front door and then turned to Stanford. Stanford walked past the stag and knocked. The stag snorted, his breath blowing over the doorknob.

“What? I can’t just _walk in!_ ” Stanford squawked.

The stag snorted again, this time bringing a bit more air into his lungs as he did so.

“I have to get his permission first, deer.”

The stag twitched an ear.

“Oh, right! Yeah, I should probably call you something, right?” Stanford thought for a moment and looked over the deer. “Hmm…” He grinned and snapped his fingers. “Whitey!”

The stag stared at him. Stanford could’ve sworn he saw exasperation in those big golden eyes of his. The stag pawed at the door again. There was no response from within the house.

Stanford looked at the door. “Wait! Is he hurt? Is that why he’s not answering?”

The stag snorted, breathing air over the door knob again.

Stanford opened the door and walked inside. Everything was nice and neat, just as Stanford expected it would be. As he walked around the house, there was no sign of Fiddleford. He wasn’t anywhere within the house.

Stanford ran back outside. “Do you know where he is?”

The stag turned and walked into the forest.

“The forest?” Stanford followed, quickening his pace a bit to catch up. The stag looked behind him and sped up as well. Soon enough, the stag was bounding through the forest and Stanford was following at a dead sprint.

Trees flashed by. Branches whizzed overhead. How Stanford had not tripped and fallen or had not been decapitated by a branch was beyond him.

Eventually, the leafy forest floor turned into hard concrete. The two raced through the city. The stag didn’t look tired in the least while Stanford was wheezing and gasping. Even through the strict diet and exercise regimen he’d put himself through, he couldn’t hold this strain.

The stag slowed to a stop. Stanford staggered and, heaving, stopped. He nearly fell over in his sudden imbalance. When he looked up, the stag looked at him and scored the ground three times. Then, he hopped over the small fence in front of one of the quaint houses in Palo Alto. The white stag looked in through a window. After a few moments, he turned and walked off. The white stag vanished into mist moments before arriving at the fence.

Stanford stood up straight and looked into the window. Staring right back at him, eyes round as moons, was his old friend and partner.

“Fiddle–”

“Stan–”

“–ford?”

Stanford, still wheezing, stood up straight. He looked about. “Wh-where are we?”

Fiddleford left the living room and walked out into the yard. “Palo Alto. What are you doing here?”

Stanford said, “Looking for you! Whitey led me to your house and you weren’t there. So, then he led me here. How are we in California? I couldn’t have just run from Gravity Falls to Palo Alto. That’s just not possible.”

“Whitey? You mean the white stag that brought me here?” Fiddleford prompted.

“He brought you here?” Stanford echoed. “That would explain why your car’s still at your house.”

“Oh.” Fiddleford sighed. “I’m gunna have ta move my stuff out of there. I don’t have a car. …you still don’t have one, either, do you?”

“Not after Steve ate it. Even if I did, I ran here on foot.” Stanford pointed out.

“Right, right. I’ll think of something. Come in! You look like you could use somethin’ to drink.” Fiddleford waved his hand and walked inside. Stanford followed him without complaint.

 

A few hours later, Stanford had cleaned himself up and now lunch, which was a basin of soup, was cooking. The two sat in the living room again.

“Stanford, why’d you try an’ find me?” Fiddleford prompted.

Stanford sighed. “I got scared. You see, this whole mess is… I need help. I tried asking Whitey for help, but he’s been the polar opposite up until I asked about how I could defeat Bill.”

Fiddleford’s eyebrows furrowed. “And it took you this long to believe that deer?”

Stanford nodded. “I thought he was one of Bill’s minions. But he gave me this book.” Stanford shuffled through his bag and brought out the plain, thick photo album.

“My photo album!” Fiddleford breathed and took it. “But I gave that to him weeks ago.”

“He gave that to me weeks ago.”

“…how long did you say you waited for him?”

“He appeared to be a few weeks ago holding that book. I didn’t trust him, of course. But after about six days of him appearing literally everywhere I could think of–including my front room–I took it from him.”

Fiddleford looked down at his hand. “After I gave him that book, he disappeared fer five days. On the sixth day, he came back. So, he was visitin’ both of us?”

“I appears so. I asked him if he was visiting anyone else and he didn’t say anything. He just left. After that he didn’t appear as often, but did visit me every day. Do you think he’s visiting a third person?”

“I believe so. That deer is smart. I wouldn’t have a hard time believin’ there was some third person he wants us ta meet. Who do you think it is?”

“I don’t know of anyone else who was with us. It was just you and me working on that portal,” Stanford pointed out.

_SCREEEEEEEEEEECH!_

The two men jumped and ran to the window. A red El Diablo screeched through the street, swerved, and stopped just in time to keep from plowing down Fiddleford’s fence. The stag stood before the car, watching its owner intently. The man tried opening the driver’s side door, but it was blocked by the fence. So, he got out the passenger’s side door. “What the hell?! You could’ve killed me, Moon-butt!”

The stag threw his head back and then looked at the window. Fiddleford and Stanford were there. He looked back at Stanley and then scored the ground three times.

“Moony?”

The stag raised his head and tail high, and walked off. He dissipated into mist.

Stanley ran forward. “Whoa, wait! Wait! Where’d you–what? What happened?” he looked around. “Where am I? Moony?”

The door to the house whose yard he almost invaded opened. Fiddleford walked out. His bright blue eyes concentrated on Stanley. Though the man didn’t look mad, Stanley jumped and put his hands up anyway and grinned. “Hey, friend! I’m sorry about the fence, uh…” His voice trailed off as he looked at the man behind him. “Sixer?”

“Stanley?” Stanford breathed.

**Author's Note:**

> "[Jay] and [Lion] have some chapters here, but they really aren't important other than letting you know that everyone is getting really thirsty. Especially [Jay], whose boyfriend keeps ignoring his calls." ~ ~~Tennelleflowers~~ Moonkitti, ["Tennelleflowers spoils the Fourth Apprentice for Everyone"](https://youtu.be/LOAxkymWnBM) (Major spoilers for Warrior Cats: Series 3, Volume 1 "The Fourth Apprentice")  
>  ~~sorry not sorry lol~~
> 
> "Good thing I didn’t run too far away. Who knows what would have happened if I tried to follow that thing?" Just so you know, I stopped writing for the night because I couldn't take myself seriously.
> 
> Honestly, though, Stanford is really fun to write. The prickly, paranoid jerk! Haha The stag's gotten Ford and Fiddle back together again. Let's see if the third sticks this time!
> 
> Whoops forgot to say: This is Part Two. Part Three is coming up soon! :D


End file.
